


You Make Me Feel

by Tseecka



Category: Primeval
Genre: F/F, Sneaking Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abby muses on why men are awful, but needs help from Helen coming to the natural solution for her dilemma...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Make Me Feel

It probably wouldn't be her first answer, if you asked Abby Maitland what she wanted. The cash for a new set of tyres for the Mini, maybe, or a full gym for the flat. Maybe a nice, shiny punching bag with the photos plastered all over it, faces of people that she really, really wishes she could solidly kick in the ass. But those wishes are telling of the deeper secret she holds. 

Despite the tough exterior, the kick-boxing and the rough attitude and the ability to more than hold her own when it comes to traipsing about with a bunch of soldiers, deep down, what Abby really wants is to feel like a real woman. 

She's been a tomboy so long--since the day her dad left with angry words about useless women and she thought maybe if she cut her hair with the pink safety scissors, put away her dresses and started stealing Jack's baggy cargos, maybe her dad would come back, and Mum would stop crying. By the time she realized it wouldn't work, she was six years old and having too much fun getting dirty in the mud and beating up on the boys at school to think about going back. 

Then the boys started being her friends, and she was popular, and who wanted to play with those stupid girls in their pigtails anyways? 

But she's spent so long now playing that part, playing with the boys and being one of the guys and kicking the shit out of punching bag after punching bag that she isn't really sure she even remembers how to be a girl. And she thinks she might miss it. 

She thinks it first when she meets Stephen, and something about that gentle face and those bright blue eyes makes her giggle and titter. But there isn't much of a chance there, anyways--he's got eyes for Cutter, and that's it, and she falls by the wayside. So content with being the mate she's not even sure how to fight for what she wants. And he's just such a great friend, why would she take it any further? Why take the chance on ruining something awesome?

Then Connor starts blipping on the radar, and lord, the boy is oblivious, she thinks. She likes him--REALLY likes him, actually--and there's just no way she can stay mates with him. Sure, he's annoying at first, but he has a good heart and a cute smile and something about him just makes her smile into her pillow when he pokes his head into her room to say goodnight. And she knows he likes her, it's obvious, written on his face as clear as day--but he's trying so hard to like her for who she is, the tomboy, and she just wants to be a lady. 

Yeah, she tries to drop hints--romantic movies and all that sort of nonsense. (They seem stupid, really, yet for some reason she wants to watch the--but only with him). He just looks at her like she's crazy, and she must be, and suggests a horror flick. Normally she'd love it. But with Connor Temple, she wants to curl up on the chesterfield with a bowl of popcorn and a warm blanket and cuddle together to watch The Holiday. 

And then have really hot, passionate, randy sex on said chesterfield when the movie's done. Which is what it boils down to, really. Abby Maitland wants to get laid, and no man is going to sleep with his tomboy best mate. It just doesn't work that way. 

Then one night, when Jack's out with friends and the flat is empty and quiet, Abby wakes up to a pair of bright eyes at the foot of her bed. She thinks it might be Connor at first, but he's not so bold, and if it were him sitting there on the foot of her bed the dip would be a lot heavier. She strains her eyes in the dark, and then widens them as she realizes just who is sitting there, watching her sleep. 

A dark smile full of glinting white teeth shines in the night. 

"Abby Maitland," she croons, her fingers picking at a loose thread in the comforter. Abby's frozen under her covers, every muscle in her body rigid, tense. She's heard that sound before. It's not just the voice she recognizes, though that she could place in an instant by now. It's a voice she hates and loathes, a voice that makes her skin crawl and makes her want to hit something. 

But that sound. She's heard that in the enclosures, when some little creature gets in with the lions or the leopards or any of those sleek, graceful hunters. The sound of a predator, moving in for a kill. The thought makes her hands tighten on the covers, her eyes widen in the dark as she feels Helen Cutter moving along the edge of the bed. Prowling. 

No. That's not it. 

"Is that short for...Abigail?" The name comes out like a sigh, and Abby can place it now. It's the sound of a hunter, yes, the sound of stalking and hunger and surety that the prize is within reach, but it's not food this hunter is after. 

She closes her eyes, and sees last week's triumph as the lions finally perpetuated the species, and she knows what's coming even before Helen rips the comforter from her body, before those fingers start running over her skin and that voice murmurs "Abigail, Abigail," over and over in her ear. 

Breath is hot and moist against her neck, a deft tongue tracing the skin where her pulse is beating frantically, and Abby knows she should move or fight or scream or something. But...but she's gentle. She's slow, and gentle and knowing, fingers touching and teasing in all the right places. She explores Abby's femininity, pushing aside fabric to tease her nipples with a chewed, un-manicured nail, to slide her fingers over the gathering wetness that Abby isn't, she's surprised to realize, even ashamed of. 

She lets out a whimper, and she can hear Helen's smile. She knows. 

The bitch killed Nick--as good as killed Stephen, a voice in her head fights to remind her. Helen's fingers slipping inside of her, moving in and out with the rhythm of their tandem breaths, argue back, shutting out all doubts and reminding Abby of just how good this feels when it's somebody else. 

Before long, Helen has her writhing, hips moving against the fingers exploring her insides, her mouth open and panting and seeking out another, something to taste and kiss. She feels Helen's breath, hot against her lips, and stretches to connect. Instead, she finds the tips of those slim fingers, and laps eagerly at the pads, tasting herself and Helen's sweat. There's something primeval about both of those tastes, and she relishes it. 

The weight on the bed shifts, and she strains, huffing, in the darkness, eager for those clever fingers to be replaced. The voice in her head tries to remind her once more how wrong this is, but it is silenced permanently as Abby feels the warm, curved body lie down next to hers. Their breasts press together, soft, and warm, and Helen resumes kissing Abby's neck. Driving her wild. 

Her hand takes Abby's, leading along skin that is surprisingly smooth, not the tanned roughness Abby is expecting. She knows what Helen is demanding, and she relents without a second thought. The sensation is strange; she's used to playing with herself as she leans against the bathroom door and listens to Connor wanking in the shower, but Helen is different, new. She explores, and the older woman returns the favour, and soon they're both panting and moaning against each other's lips. 

It's not surprising to Abby when Helen gets rough, suddenly nipping and biting where before there were only soft suckles and licks. Her gentleness at first was the shock; it seems so unlike her--but now she's hard, unforgiving and demanding and, Abby realizes, possessive. 

The thought sends shivers up and down her spine that have nothing to do with the fingers that are working her more roughly. 

She mewls, and Helen takes, and she gives and gives until finally her thighs shake and her insides clench. Every muscle in her body quivers for a moment, as Helen's rough lips swallow her loud, satisfied moans; Abby can taste blood from the fierce kiss, but doesn't mind it. 

Her thoughts turn to single-minded determination, and she rolls over slightly, shifting down the bed and nudging Helen's thighs further apart. She feels long fingers pushing through her hair, and she ducks her head, licking and kissing and suckling in exactly the way she, herself, likes. Helen doesn't make a noise, but her fingers press more insistently against Abby's scalp. 

She wriggles a bit to get one hand free, and starts moving a finger along with the rhythm of her tongue, smiling in satisfaction as that gets a sharp breath from the woman. She can feel Helen's muscles twitching, her hips jerking with every lick and every thrust, and she doesn't let up until she feels those muscles clenching unmistakably around her finger. With the tip of her tongue, she teases out the rest of Helen's orgasm, then lets herself fall to one side, smiling in the darkness. 

It's wrong, and she knows it. She should hate Helen--hell, she does. The woman is a murderous, thieving, raging bitch and deserves to be put down like a rabid animal. 

But it won't be Abby who does it, because she finally has what she wants most. Whatever Helen's motives might be--and she has them, Abby knows; she's not that naive--she is the only person who makes Abby feel like a real woman.

Long fingers toy with her hair for a moment, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them, Helen's gone. 


End file.
